


You Only Live Forever

by schroedingersfox



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Human Loki, Humor, M/M, Tony-centric, Vampire Tony, and sometimes those need to be addressed with beautiful comeuppance, sometimes vampires have boundary issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schroedingersfox/pseuds/schroedingersfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's crossed the threshold into thousands of homes before, and he still doesn’t know why he needs to be let in. But considering the circumstances? He figures it’s just polite. </p>
<p>And immortality doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel pain. It’s something he generally avoids, because he’s not a masochist, but... <i>sometimes</i> it’s necessary.</p>
<p>He still wants that dinner date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Only Live Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FelicityGS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/gifts).



> Tis the season! Happy Month of Halloween! (Or year.)
> 
> I'm really excited I was able to finish this in time to be seasonal, because I love me some vampire world-building and I love me some frostiron camp. Hope y'all like it!
> 
> (And re: world-building, if you have questions lemme know because I am _so there_ to talk about it.)

 

Just because he’s immortal, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel pain.

He heals up quickly enough, but it’s always that first _crack_ that has him seeing stars. It’s something he generally avoids, because he’s not a masochist, but sometimes it’s necessary. So with a deep breath, Tony takes his knee in one hand, ankle in the other, and _pushes_.

Tony scoped out the place weeks ago as a potential go-to. It’s a run-down rental, missing some roof shingles, and the porch has a broken step, but that’s as far as first impressions go. Inside, the place is _spotless_ , and despite the general lack of furniture and decor, it’s actually coherent in a style that shows hints of genuine taste. The guy currently living there commutes to the local university three times a week, and always returns at roughly the same time each night on the days he leaves. There’s slow foot traffic, no one seems to be invited over except delivery, and the guy stays in most the time. He’s also pretty easy on the eyes, which doesn’t hurt any.

Better do it now, Tony thinks, and he pushes himself standing to the one leg that _doesn_ _’t_ have blood and bone sticking out of his shin. He hobbles his way up to the front door, minding the broken step as much as he can. But climbing the stairs still means he has to put his weight on the bad leg, and when he does, he’s treated to a delightful sudden sway in his vision and hitch in his breath.

He presses a finger against the bell, and the crest-fall of _pin-pon_ calls out muffled from inside. The old and weathered door frame, designs carved into the grain, provides only a small relief as he leans his forehead against it. Fuck, it hurts, but everyone is too goddamned _paranoid_ these days.

…Why is it still quiet?

Tony frowns and leans back from the door. He calls out, “Hey, _please_ , is anyone there?” and rings the bell again, then knocks. The lights are on; he’s seen movement. The guy inside is _definitely_ awake and walking around.

Finally, he hears footsteps approaching, followed by the sound of a chain sliding into place, and at last, the deadbolt unlocking.

Paranoid.

The door opens and green eyes appear over the chain. They give Tony a once-over, and then the guy says, “Yes?”

Tony steadies himself onto his good leg and gestures to his other. A new wave of pain has him hissing between his teeth, and he says, “God, I just—can you call an ambulance?” When Mr. Green-Eyes doesn’t say anything, Tony jabs his thumb out towards the old oak lining the sidewalk. “Tree root, landed god-awful, hurts. Can’t see straight.”

Those same eyes glance back down to Tony’s leg. “The bus on this route goes direct to the hospital.”

“Does it look like I can walk? Jesus, man, I barely made it up your porch. Do you not have a phone?”

He was half-expecting to explain why _he_ didn’t have one, a quick lie about going to the store for some cigs and left it at home, or maybe he dropped it in the sink and needed some rice—when there’s a sigh to break his thoughts and the guy says, “I guess I can call for one.”

Tony can feel the relief wash in like a wave… when the door starts to close. He slaps his hand against it. “You just gonna let me sit out here?”

“I can’t remove the chain if I don’t close the door,” the guys says, slow with a hint of patronizing.

Fair enough; the guy has a point. Tony groans, wondering if he’s being played or if his plan is just run-of-the-mill falling apart. “Yeah, right. Sorry. Just hurts like a bitch, y’know?”

He almost settles into believing that the door wouldn’t open back up again, but the guy reappears and loops Tony’s arm around his shoulders.

“Kitchen is closer,” he explains without being asked, stooping slightly to match Tony’s height. “You can wait in there while I call.”

Tony grins as he passes the threshold, and it feels like a breeze inside himself. His lips press together to hide his fangs, and it kind of makes a grimace in the low-light; which is good, because he’s supposed to be in pain. “Absolute lifesaver, man.”

He’s crossed into thousands of homes before, and he still doesn’t know why he needs to be let in—or why when he’s not invited it’s like breathing through thick cotton that’s stuffed in his lungs while trying to run on the sea floor—but considering the circumstances, he figures it’s just polite.

The kitchen is right off the main entrance, a small thing with barely enough room for the two-seater table resting against the only wall with a window. The wooden chair rocks as Tony is ushered into it.

“So, what’s your name?” he asks, and those green eyes just _look_ at him askew like Tony’s actively trying to sabotage his own medical assistance. “I’m Tony,” he tries, and is promptly ignored as pale fingers quickly tap out 9-1-1. Tony hides another grin by leaning over to cut open his jeans with the scissors he found on the table, relieving his leg (and bone) of the pressure.

Halfway through giving the dispatcher his address, the guy does a double-take at Tony’s leg with its new, external joint halfway down his shin, and Tony’s honestly impressed that there was enough color in that face to drain even more.

“Oh my god,” the guy breathes, and the voice on the phone attempts to recapture his attention with a few “Sir?”s. He has to repeat his address, but this time he’s digging through drawers with one hand until he finds and pulls out a towel. It’s a good few minutes until he ends the call, and then he’s kneeling by Tony’s leg and working the towel into a tourniquet above the knee.

“It’s Loki,” he says, reply better late than never, and then the guy— _Loki_ —asks, “Does it hurt a lot?”

Tony obliges with an “Ouch,” but it’s not convincing, and Loki drops the concern from his face. “Is this even real?” he asks, and Tony briefly wonders if this strategy wasn’t as foolproof as he thought, being so close to Halloween—when Loki suddenly _touches_ the bone; and then Tony is doubled-over, face between knees and wanting to vomit until the wave of nausea and pain recedes.

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” and Loki is leaning away, nearly falling over backwards, hands raised and giving Tony space.

This better be really fucking worth it.

*****

The ambulance had arrived within twenty—a _long_ and silent twenty, because even though Tony’s leg had bone popping out like a surprise and Loki was close to passing out from staring at it, he wasn’t bleeding out and there was probably someone with a gunshot wound who _was_.

And it wasn’t like Tony was able to just strike up chit-chat because he was (supposed to be) in excruciating pain.

So the ambulance showed up, and Tony waved a small goodbye to Loki as he was hauled into the back of the van. He let the good doctors at the hospital cut open and re-set his leg with stitches and a cast, and then he hauled ass out of there before the sun came up—with perhaps a small _suggestion_ to passers-by to ignore the patient wearing scrubs on his lower half, who happened to be walking out of the hospital at 3 A.M. with crutches and a souvenir blood bag.

Four days later on a Friday night, Tony’s back at Loki’s place; he knows he’s home. He watched him from across the street—feeling a bit like a creep if he was honest with himself about it—and he knows that he came home later than usual with a very pretty scowl on his face.

It was already dark when Loki stepped off the bus, the only passenger at his stop, and he took the time to readjust the messenger bag on his shoulder before starting the five-house distance to his own. It'd be a prime location, being as close to the bus stop as he is, if the houses didn't look as though they had settled after their dying sigh.

Tony gives him ten minutes from the time Loki enters his house. Watches, to make sure he's not gonna start to cook something and ruin potential plans. He’s taking him on a dinner date, to make a good first impression. Eating out to test the waters for later eating-in. He’s had a few weeks to set this up and a couple days to make a solid strategy. And however not-ideal it would be to be shot down, at least he hasn’t been bored.

Wind picks up in the interim and swirls the still-green leaves in the street—victims of an early freeze. It’d be an apt metaphor for his own life, were he to consider it: a cold claw of death ripping leaves from the branches before their time, leaving them swept up to shrivel alone in a disappointing new landscape.

As it is, the cold only makes Tony chilled and impatient.

He gives him six minutes.

The street is nearly as dead as some of the trees lining it, dark potholes to match the color of the twisted oaks long-past saving but never cut down. He can cross without hobbling too fast to avoid any cars, but the cast wrapped around his leg is cramping his style as well as his foot. Unavoidable, he thinks, so he just sets his mouth and tries to avoid stomping a hole through the rotting porch step.

(He had gone to break open the cast when he first got home from the hospital, but then he realized he still needed it for this playacting; so he left it alone, sulked, and pulled on some sweats.)

He rings the bell, stands to the side, and settles in for the wait. It's just enough time passed that he goes to knock, when the door opens, no chain this time, and his hand is caught midair. "You," Loki says, matter-of-factly and maybe surprised, but at least not hostile. Tony beams.

Loki then gets this thoughtful look on his face, before saying, "Tony;" and Tony's smile only gets wider in satisfied amusement and he replies, "Loki," like they were introducing each other.

“So,” Loki says, “Did you need something? Because if you’re here to get me to pay your medical bills, my property line doesn’t extend to that tree.”

Tony laughs and waves away the idea. “Nah, not that. I’m here to ask you out.”

“Really?” Loki asks, but his voice is laced with skepticism and expression wholly unimpressed.

It’s… not quite the reaction Tony was going for. He notices Loki glancing down at his leg, and he snaps his fingers at him.

“Hey, eyes up here,” he says, and Loki’s gaze flicks back up to his own. “Ignore the cast, okay? This isn’t a sympathy bid. This is me wanting to thank you for calling the ambulance. …and me also wanting to take you out for dinner because I think you’re cute.”

Loki’s mouth falls into a grimace and Tony quickly amends, “Hot. You’re definitely hot.”

“Do you always ask out random men to dinner?”

Tony is pretty damn sure he knows which way this guy swings, even if only part of the time. So on one hand, if Loki wants to hide in the closet, that’s his prerogative. But on the other hand, Tony still wants that dinner date. He decides to press on.

“What, is that not your thing? It doesn’t have to be.”

“No, that’s not—” Loki stops himself, eying Tony suspiciously, like he’s waiting for him to say, _Just kidding!_ or _You thought I was serious?_ But the suspicion gives way to contemplation, and after a pause he asks, “When?”

“How about tonight?”

And then the contemplation sharply drops to give way to the irritation from earlier, from when he first got off the bus, and Tony makes a mental note to try and get _that_ story out of him later. He’s about to deflect again when Loki runs a hand back through his hair and sighs.

“Fine, sure,” Loki agrees. “Let me lock up and I’ll be right out.”

Score one for Tony, but then there’s also the matter of how defeated Loki sounds about it. He mentally brushes it aside.

It’ll be _fine._

*****

He’s replacing fabric with his hands over Loki’s stomach, and muscles clench beneath the drag of his nails. Loki is pulling him down by the back of his neck, letting Tony crawl on top of him—because fuck if the couch has any room to be _modest_ about it—and working to undo the ties to Tony’s waistband with his free hand. If there’s leverage to be gained through a well-placed palm, Loki finds it against Tony’s cock; and soon the knot is undone with a grin Tony can feel against his lips.

The first date had gone spectacularly well, Tony had thought, because it led to a second. Even dragging along five-pounds of plaster, dolled up with a walking boot that’s essentially a rubber sole wrapped up around his foot, _and_ a pair of straight-leg black sweatpants that guaranteed they couldn’t go anywhere fancy, Tony still managed to woo Loki back onto the bus and into a downtown family-owned pizza parlor the size of a laundromat. The night had ended with Tony seeing Loki to the bus stop, putting his number in Loki’s phone, and Loki promising to text when he got home.

He did.

Date number two was settled for the following Wednesday, on a night (Tony knew, because of his _research_ ) that was before one of Loki’s days off from class. Loki had probed for movie genre compatibility, before suggesting the remake (or reboot) of some horror classic.

_Tis the season, after all,_ Loki’s text had read, leading Tony to joke back, _i_ _’ll even let u hold my hand if u want ;),_ and for an agonizing three hours Tony’s phone was absolutely silent, until:

_Sorry, had to clock in some hours. Maybe if I sit on your right and break your hand, you’ll have a set pair._

Wednesday it was.

The movie fucking sucked.

Loki had looked completely sour and distraught walking out of the theater, hands in his jacket pockets and large scarf pulled up towards his nose; but then he glanced sideways at Tony and offered, “I have the original at home, you know. Since you said you’ve never seen it.”

So now they’re making out while a B-grade horror movie is playing in the background, and while Tony’s not entirely sure what that means in terms of tastes for either of them, he’s also not going to be the first to complain.

A leg hooks around Tony’s hip and he’s jostled forward before he can catch himself, mouths clashing just when Loki has decided to trace the inside of Tony’s mouth. There’s a smack and groan as two faces collide, and Loki immediately pulls away with a sharp hiss.

"Shit. My tongue," he says, and licks the back of his hand—brazenly, Tony would add—to check the damage.

"Is it bleeding?" There's no real need to ask, because the blood has started to overpower other smells as always, but Tony does so anyway out of _concern_ like any normal person would do.

"Mm, quite a lot. Well, perhaps I'm overreacting; but it is." Loki disappears into the kitchen, coming back with a folded paper towel to his mouth and a look that dares Tony to say anything about it. "What," he suddenly laughs, "it’s not as though you have fangs, right?"

Even as a joke it catches Tony off-guard, and because he's never been good at lying, his reply isn't soon enough, and it sends Loki's face into pinched confusion.

"Do you really?"

Tony rubs his beard in a nervous habit, before determining, _Fuck it._ He pushes up the side of his lip with his thumb, showing off the thick and sharp canine hidden inside.

It's silent, and Loki's face is unreadable. (Tony is more of an adult, here, and he _will not squirm_ , for god's sake.) Finally, Loki pulls the towel away from his mouth, if only to frown more effectively.

"Are you some kind of goth?"

"What?"

"You know," Loki says, scrutinizing him, "the kind that file their own teeth."

" _What_ ," Tony says, not realizing when he had gone to stand.

Loki shrugs. "You don't have to get defensive. I guess you're going stealth? You definitely don't dress like someone who would do that."

The couch lets out a long squeal as Tony collapses back sitting. He runs a hand down his face with a groan, feeling strangely more offended than if he had just been called a leech. On screen, the jock gets cornered and munched by a ghoul, and blood and viscera splatters the wall behind him.

“I didn’t _file my teeth,_ ” Tony says as he looks at Loki from over his hand, before dragging it the rest of the way off his face. It’s not as though he wanted to avoid this conversation, but… he wanted to avoid this conversation—at least for another time that didn’t interrupt a good chance of sex, but he’s a simple guy.

Loki walks back over to the couch and sits on the armrest sideways, feet on the cushion. “So were you born like that?”

“In a sense,” Tony says, so very dry, and that earns him a curious look.

“Why didn’t you file them _down_ , then? They seem awfully sharp.”

The couch makes another pathetic noise as Tony turns to face Loki, his back leaning against the opposite armrest. He pulls his feet up in front of him and wraps his arms around his knees. “You realize you’re doing the equivalent of, ‘Grandma, what big teeth you have!’ Except Grandma probably couldn’t tell you that you’re type A-negative just from smelling the blood on that tissue of yours.”

That gives Loki pause for serious concentration, eying Tony like he’s not sure what to make of him.

“Look,” Tony says, saving them both from awkward silences. “If Occam’s razor was shoved any farther under your nose you wouldn’t have one left. Don’t think so hard about it.”

Finally, Loki leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You expect me to believe that you're some kind of... Vlad the Impaler?"

_Oh thank god_ , Tony thinks in relief and he sags backwards, because he wasn’t sure if mentioning Red Riding Hood had thrown any guesses off-track. And _then_ he’d have to explain that, no, werewolves are not a thing. Why would they be?

"PR stunt. He actually didn't drink blood. Anyway," Tony says, getting up from the couch and beckoning Loki to follow him, "back to the kitchen. This is gonna make a mess."

"What is?" Loki asks, watching Tony leave the room before curiosity takes over and he hops to his feet.

Tony settles himself into the same chair he sat in during that first meeting, waiting until Loki enters the kitchen. When he appears in the doorway, Tony announces, "Proof,” and starts rolling up the pant leg up over his cast.

At that word, arms are immediately crossed, and Loki looks less than impressed. "Proof? You're not going to get blood all over my floor again like last— oh my god."

The plaster around his leg is effectively ripped apart beneath his hands, a giant chunk breaking off before it’s tossed unceremoniously to the floor beside him. Tony works to make an opening down the center, the space between him and Loki filled with only the sounds of the thick cast tearing and being pulled apart. He’s quick and methodical. Loki has not yet moved from his spot, but neither has he run to grab a knife from the block on the kitchen counter.

Pushing the remains of the cast from his leg, Tony starts to unwrap the gauze bandage, briefly glancing up. “Do you believe me now?”

“But, that’s—” Loki says, and he looks just as pale as the first time he saw the once-wreck of Tony’s leg. “Your leg,” he starts again. “There was bone. I touched it.”

“That you did,” Tony agrees, dropping the last of the bandage to the ground and flexing out his leg with a pleased sound. “And I nearly threw up on your foot from it, too.”

“But _how,_ ” and Loki has reached out to grip the door frame. “You can’t heal from that in a _week_. _There was bone._ ”

Tony looks at him, sees the confusion and panic he expected to see much earlier, and feels something a bit like pity. “Yeah. There was. And the nice doctor cut me open, set it right, and wrapped me up. In fact—” he says, checking the length of the bandage. “Ah, there they are. Stitches.”

And he holds it up so Loki can see some of the nylon sutures still unbroken and untied, caught on the fibers of the gauze. Tony brings them close to his face, to examine them himself, and says, “Huh. So they’re probably what itched like a bitch.” To Loki, he explains, “Skin healed, pushed them out, and they’ve been rubbing up against me for a week.”

He explains, as though Loki looks anywhere near understanding verbal speech at the moment. Tony half expects his legs to give out with the added weight from the blood they obviously stole from his face, but Loki manages to straighten, drag the other chair over in front of Tony, eases himself sitting, and look him dead in the eye.

“You’re going to tell me what happened.”

“Sure.”

“Did you really break your leg?”

“Yup. But not over that tree trunk, though that was pretty convenient as a story prop. I just put my hands like so”—one hand on his knee, the other on his ankle—“and pushed together. Pop.”

“Why?”

“To get inside your house.”

_“Why?”_

“Threshold issues. And personal space issues? Anyway.” Tony exhales loudly and runs a hand through his hair. “Look. I didn’t want it to come out like… _this,_ ” he says, gesturing between them.

Loki appears entirely unconvinced. “You’re saying you would have said something anyway? And not, say, halfway through draining me dry?”

“What? _No,_ ” Tony protests, “that’s fuckin’ _rude_. I was gonna wait until the third date to bring it up. Seems like a good number.”

“Because you clearly expected this one to go well,” counters Loki, but there’s a hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Did you just take me out on those dates hoping you could bite my neck eventually?"

"Did you not agree to go on them hoping for sex later?"

Loki’s bottom lip disappears between his teeth as he chews on it. "…Fair,” he concedes at last. “But this is completely different."

"We can do both,” Tony says with a shrug, and Loki looks thoughtful.

*****

They move to the bedroom proper this time, leaving the movie to continue unwatched, because Tony is more concerned with tasting Loki’s mouth after accidentally biting his tongue earlier and Loki is definitely more concerned with letting him do it. Except halfway down the hall Loki is pushed up against a door, and even though he makes this marvelous sound when Tony grips his ass, he still manages to tug on Tony’s hair and say, “Actual bed.”

The bed is pleasantly a double, though with the narrow hall and tight corners Tony wonders for a hot moment how he got the mattress in there to begin with. He pushes Loki onto the sheets, crawling on top of him like a continuation from earlier; and this time when Loki hisses it’s because of a knee pressing between his thighs.

Loki pulls himself backwards so he’s propped against the small mountain of pillows, tugging at the waistband of Tony’s still-untied pants. (And Tony’s already making plans to metaphorically burn them later to celebrate wearing jeans for the first time in a week.) Tony gladly follows, pushing up Loki’s shirt so he can trace a path up his stomach and chest with tongue and mouth. They quickly discard their shirts onto the floor, and Tony tries not to focus on the color brightening Loki's skin like a personal first temptation in the wilderness.

He tries to get Loki to relax; takes his time. Sees what teasing he can get away with before Loki notices how frustrated he’s gotten and shoots a glare at Tony that says, _Fix it, or don't bother._ It gets fixed, _obviously_ , but that doesn’t stop Tony from starting up again somewhere else.

Tony has enough personal data to know that the endorphins that come with sex and all-around arousal—besides being fun as hell— _also_ help with the initial pain of teeth actually breaking the skin. So he’s doing him a favor, really. Helping him out.

And, well. Mainly it's just fun as hell.

If only Loki would stop freezing every time Tony came near his throat.

Tony pulls back at a failed attempt at a hickey and asks, "You doing okay?"

Loki’s eyes snap open and meet Tony’s. "Just get it over with," he says, readjusting beneath him and pushing hair out of his eyes.

"That doesn't sound very enthusiastic, are you sure you want me—"

"I _said_ ," Loki bites out, placing both hands on Tony's face and pulling him close again, "shut up and do it."

"All right," Tony agrees, before turning the charm back on like a switch. "But you"—he closes the small distance between them, speaking between kisses—“need to _relax_."

And he gives him a nudge with that word, just a bit, and immediately feels the tension melt from Loki. Tony trails his kisses down to his throat, mirroring a hand running alongside his waist and hip and thigh; and maybe he's a bit of a tease when he palms Loki's cock through the fabric of his jeans, but for a distraction it's as good as any, and then he sinks his teeth into flesh. Loki makes this small keening noise, his face pressed against Tony’s shoulder. Tony feels those nails of his threaten a line of crescent moons along his back and only laments that the marks they leave won’t be visible in an hour.

“Ah, fuck,” Tony groans, muffled into Loki’s neck, readjusting his grip to hold him in a tight embrace—Loki’s not going _anywhere_ —when the hot blood starts to pump into his mouth. It coats his tongue like syrup, staining his teeth—

And this time it’s Tony who pulls out and back like _he_ was the one bit, eyes shut tight and bending over Loki with a mouth full of

_something._

“Ah, fuck,” he repeats; but because he’s a gentleman who doesn’t talk with food in his mouth, because opening it would spill a mixture of spit and blood onto the guy he just _took_ it from and that’s _incomprehensibly rude_ , it sounds more like a strangled “ahhgugh”. Tony sits back on his heels, the taste in his mouth getting worse by the second, and he forces himself to have a modicum of decency to _swallow it_.

When his mouth is emptied and he opens his eyes, Loki is glaring at him, mouth thin and blood running down his chest in thin lines. “Care to explain?”

“Uh, I should be asking _you_ that,” says Tony, frankly bewildered that it’s somehow his fault. “What’s with your blood?”

Loki matches Tony’s confusion with a mountain of his own. “What do you mean?”

“Well. If I had to explain it? It tasted like skim. It was thin, and watery, and that definitely wasn’t from the venom. Though, speaking of—” Tony sticks his thumb into his mouth and punctures the pad of it. Then he reaches out, and before Loki can pull away, smears the bead of blood across the puncture wounds. They remain open, but the blood, at least, slows to a halt.

And now there’s leftovers of Loki’s blood on his finger and Tony stares uncertain at it, before deciding at last to wipe it on his pants. The fabric is black enough; and like hell he wants to willingly put _that blood_ back in his mouth.

How could a guy like Loki look like he does and taste _so goddamn awful?_

There’s a brief silence between them, before Loki offers an unsure, “I’m anemic, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh my god,” Tony breathes, horrified, and he fights the urge to claw his tongue out of his mouth just to rid himself of the taste. “Yes, that’s _what I mean._ Shit, no _wonder_.”

The last word turns into a whine, and he buries his face in his hands. Weeks, _wasted_. He’s gonna have to go back to the blood bank again with that pretentious asshole who runs it from the back of his van and—

Loki shifts his legs that are still trapped beneath Tony, knees brushing up against him. “Did you still want that blow job?” he asks casually, and Tony slides his fingers apart, only to meet a challenge hidden in those bright eyes. Loki shifts again and runs a hand up along Tony’s inner thigh.

Tony considers.

This could, perhaps, still be _extremely_ fucking worth it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can't in good faith post this without posting the _amazing_ prompt for a vampire AU I saw on Tumblr, which I will link on mine [here](http://foxachu.tumblr.com/post/120664934004/perkprincess-fractalacidfairy-harblkun).
> 
> Bless friends who know when to tag you in a post.


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